


fix my eyes on the sun

by kimaracretak



Category: River (TV 2015)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Memories, Past Character Death, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 01:45:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18216524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimaracretak/pseuds/kimaracretak
Summary: They reach for the iPad at the same time, and, as their fingers brush, Chrissie has the brief, ridiculous impulse to cover the screen. It's not fair to either of them, the woman she never said anything to or the woman she's - well, she hasn't said much to Rosa either, beyondcan I kiss youandyes.[ Chrissie, on photographs and memory. ]





	fix my eyes on the sun

**Author's Note:**

> For the ladiesbingo prompt 'sepia'

The photos aren't downloading.

Realistically, Chrissie knows that isn't her fault - or even, strictly, her job - but she still feels like she owes it to Stevie, to sort through the last digital traces of her life now that her computer and its files aren't Forensics' property anymore. She'll give it to John when she's done, maybe - share it with him, at the very least, but as long as he's talking to her memories a small, selfish part of her believes she's entitled to be the one to see her memories, for at least a little while.

But the photos, so shockingly vivid on Stevie's aged desktop, are washed out copies of copies on the iPad, black and white and coffee-stained sepia, as if even the computer knows Stevie's dead, somewhere in its little electronic brain, and has decided to taunt her with its imperfections.

After the fifth time she means to swipe on to transfer the next photo and instead sends the file skittering off the side of the screen to god knows where, Chrissie gives up, slamming the device down her desk with enough force to knock over half the stacks of papers and at least one of her desk organisers.

The screen stays lit, Stevie smiling up at her from behind the sepia curtain that couldn't protect her from enough of the world. She doesn't speak. Not that Chrissie expects her to, really, she knows from videos, but it wouldn't be the first thing that's gone sideways. It wouldn't even be the worst.

"When the robots take over the world, they're going to remember how you treated your iPad."

She doesn't need to look up to see Rosa hovering in the doorway, hands in her pockets, smile hesitant. Rosa comes by more nights than not, now: not so often that Chrissie expects her, but often enough that she misses her when she doesn't. Enough nights that she really has no excuse for feeling like a blushing schoolgirl whenever Rosa greets her.

"Yes, well." Chrissie shakes herself from her thoughts, rights her cup of pencils and sighs, trying to gather the remnants of her dignity. "Hopefully they'll also remember how stroppy the iPad was being."

Rosa doesn't quite laugh, but Chrissie can see the effort she's putting in not to as she enters the room fully. It shivers under her skin in the cold light of the office, and Chrissie -

\- Chrissie wants to make her laugh for real. Wants her to laugh about something that doesn't relate to the end of the world, after the year it's been when too many worlds _did_ end.

They reach for the iPad at the same time, and, as their fingers brush, Chrissie has the brief, ridiculous impulse to cover the screen. It's not fair to either of them, the woman she never said anything to or the woman she's - well, she hasn't said much to Rosa either, beyond _can I kiss you_ and _yes_.

Rosa doesn't ask _do you want to talk about her?_ , which is a relief, because Chrissie's too tired to say anything but the truth, which is, she isn't sure anymore that she knows how to do anything _but_ talk about Stevie. Instead, all she says is, "When was this?"

"05. Right after Sanderson passed her sergeant's exams." The answer comes automatically, ten years on from the night and five years after Sanderson had moved north with her husband and taken up a posting in Newcastle.

Rosa hums softly in acknowledgment as she circles the desk, drapes herself over the back of Chrissie's chair and presses a soft kiss to the side of her head. "D'you know every photo like that?"

Chrissie leans back into Rosa's touch, breathes in the faint lingering smell of her lavender perfume, a welcome contrast to the scents of industrial cleaning products that too often smothered the whole building. "Yeah."

"Tell me?"

Stevie had always wanted to talk, and there was still so much left to say at the end. As she flips to the next photo - a successful gesture, another sepia-toned memory - Chrissie wonders if she can do any better with Rosa.


End file.
